


an empty apology and a dispassionate kiss

by charm point (arthur_pendragon)



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: An Emotion I Can't Name, Atobe cameo, Consists Entirely of Drabbles, Hurt, Love, M/M, POV Second Person, Ryouma spelled as Ryoma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 13:25:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11231910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthur_pendragon/pseuds/charm%20point
Summary: How do you know he loves you? I mean, he never tells you.





	an empty apology and a dispassionate kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Echizen/Horio. Yeah. #2 OTP behind Royal.

I.

How do you know he loves you? I mean, he never tells you. Once and never again.

* * *

 

II.

You (just you, not you and him) had a proper movie love story: the two of you began as friends, remaining friends (at the very least, club-mates) until you started looking at him from the perspective of someone who also wanted to taste the Ponta on his lips.

* * *

 

III.

There is someone, he said.

There is someone in the States, whom he had feelings for. And that ended badly, and he doesn’t want to date anyone while he’s in Tokyo. He’ll answer your confession at graduation (two years away). And the two of you are stuck in the friend-zone, like that’s a real thing. But does that mean he can’t bring himself to accept the feelings he might have for you? Or is this a cowardly let-down? What’s going on? You just need answers. And he’s not giving them to you.

Time for tequila. Time for mojitos, rum and coke (rum and virgin Cuba Libre, ha ha ha), cognac, those Irish liqueur, Kahlúa, and Amaretto shots called ‘Blow Jobs’, which taste nothing like actual blowjobs. Maybe they weren’t meant to.

He finds out you almost died from alcohol poisoning. He doesn’t talk to you for twelve months. He spends six months of those twelve in Singapore. He isn’t handling this properly, but neither are you.

* * *

 

IV.

His birthday goes by on Christmas Eve, and you think you’ll be a wreck, but you’re fine, and you’re not quite sure what you feel for him. But then he knocks on your door on New Year’s Eve, introduces himself to your parents. You’re standing at the foot of the stairs and your heart is pounding like it hasn’t in a year.

He takes you out to a fireworks show, and kisses you with your permission when the clock strikes twelve. Are you happy? Is he just sorry?

* * *

 

V.

How does it work? This whole, uh, dating rigmarole? Do you hold hands in public now? Has he told his nosy father? Has he told that someone in the States? Does he still talk to them? Does he still like them? Did he try to make it work with them? Did it fail and are you a rebound?

I mean, why did he step back into your life?

* * *

 

VI.

You kiss him and he kisses you back, but you taught yourself to not care about him for a year and those quirks of his that charmed you first and repulsed you second — how do you learn to love them again without constantly reminding yourself of what it took to hate them in the first place?

* * *

 

VII.

It’s kind of awkward these days, the two of you. Your history muffles your communication. He’s occasionally apologetic and that throws you off.

Sometimes, when you’re in his bed, you turn to your side and are greeted with his naked back. You put your fingertips on that expanse of skin, and he stirs, turns to you, and smothers you in kisses. His eyes are curiously blank and don’t meet yours — or maybe you just can’t see them properly in the half-dark room.

_He loves you, and that is all that you need to believe in._

_He loves you, right?_

_I mean, that’s what he said. But you don’t know. Um. You’ll just go back to sleep and stop digging yourself into a hole filled with your overthinking._

* * *

 

VIII.

Someone strange enters the tennis club at Seigaku seven months after you’ve been dating and doing all the things one is supposed to do when they’re dating — kissing behind the sheds, dropping love notes in lockers, buying each other grip tape (have you been smiling?) — asking for Captain Ryoma Echizen in thickly accented Japanese. She looks like she hasn’t spent a damn second in Japan yet (she did say Ryoma before Echizen) and its humid heat yet. She has long red silky-straight hair, like Sakuno’s, Sakuno who left Seigaku a long time ago, and her eyes are blue and have thick eyelashes and she’s got pretty freckles on her nose and cheeks and it hits you.

More accurately, the bottom of your stomach vanishes, and you’re really lacking air in your lungs now.

* * *

 

IX.

Ryoma’s talking to her in a low voice, away from the nets, where they won’t interrupt — they are anyway, a dozen curious stares have forgotten to play tennis. He’s got these muscles now, that look so good in sunlight, and he’s got longer hair and he’s taller and he’s still your boyfriend, right? Even though this girl suits him so much more?

“It took me so long to find you,” the girl says loud enough for you to hear. You, of course, aren’t doing anything resembling practice. Ryoma won’t tell you to leave, though.

“You weren’t meant to,” Ryoma sighs, running his hands through his hair. The girl chuckles slightly, as if it’s a gesture she’s grown fond of and hasn’t seen in a while.

Wait, what the fuck does that mean?

You leave, even though Ryoma didn’t tell you to leave.

* * *

 

X.

You resist the temptation to be dramatic and shut Ryoma out for days. Instead, when he calls you on your cellphone (late night when he needs your love) that evening, you pick up.

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“Sorry about today.”

“It’s okay, I suppose.” Your heart is slowly withering away for the second time, but it’s okay, you suppose. You don’t particularly feel anything.

“Satoshi, I…” he trails off, with a soft sigh of frustration. He’s probably running his free hand through his hair again. You imagine the American girl giggling.

“Um. You can, uh, yeah.”

Do you even love him anymore? (Yes, your heart is in tatters but that’s irrelevant because you can’t feel it.)

Is this conversation worth having?

“Satoshi,” he begins.

“Do you want to break up with me to be with her?” You ask, matter-of-factly, because it’s okay if he does. I mean. Seven months of all the conventional romantic stuff, but he only ever told you he loves you the one time, and never really did anything to show it. He may have loved her all this time. It’s fine. You’re fine. You’ll be fine. What does it matter? He should be happy. Maybe you don’t love him. Maybe you haven’t since he went to Singapore, absence having made your heart forget, maybe.

He hangs up. A piece of your heart implodes into nothingness.

Here we go again with all the nebulous answers.

* * *

 

XI.

Ryoma kisses you (the works. Tongue and all) first thing when he sees you the morning after the phone call. Guess he doesn’t want to break up just yet.

You never see that girl again, and she assumes a superhuman form in your mind, a glorious being of ethereal beauty that you can never compare to because you’re just Horio Satoshi and you’ve not even visited all of the prefectures in Japan, and you’re frankly below average at everything and you should just cut Ryoma out of your life if you want to be happy. Are you even happy!

* * *

 

XII.

“What was her name?” You ask innocently one day as you break away from a particularly passionate kiss (that, strangely, neither of you put much effort into).

Ryoma looks at you. Piercing gaze. You don’t look away. You were only asking.

He swallows. Hmm.

He mumbles some English name that you can’t make sense of because suddenly you can’t hear anything because your stomach’s gone bottomless again. It keeps doing that. Does this mean you love him? Does this mean it hurts to even wonder if he still loves her?

You wish someone would come along and tell you what you feel.

* * *

 

XIII.

Ryoma’s going to university in the States — sigh. That girl hasn’t escaped your mind.

Atobe Keigo sees you in a café and deigns to come over and talk to you, even though you’re less than a speck in his eyes. How are you, everything good, you’re Horio Satoshi, of course I know you.

He’s at university. In Germany! Wow. You would never be able to get in. You’re not smart. You’re not good enough.

“Why not?” He asks. Such faith, and he doesn’t even know you.

“Why not?” He repeats.

It’s a seed in your heart.

You get into Atobe’s university with a scholarship to boot. The first Ryoma hears of it is when he reads your acceptance letter when you show him.

Does he love you? Do you stick around to talk about it? Do you love him? What’s going on? Do you stay? Would he like you to stay? Are you a fucking jerk for going to Germany without telling him? Do you kiss him?

No. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. Turns on the shower. You lie down on his bed, breathe in his smell, and fall asleep.

* * *

 

XIV.

This lack of communication between the two of you is frankly dangerous and might end with both of you irreparably damaged. You already may be beyond salvaging.

* * *

 

XV.

You repeat the American girl’s name in the middle of that night, that night (you heard it properly after all).

The body beside you jerks. Not asleep after all. You take a deep breath.

He covers your mouth with his.

You feel like you’re stuck in limbo. Are you? Where is this headed?

* * *

 

XVI.

“Do you want to break up with me?” You ask, a week before you leave for Germany. The second time you’ve asked this question. You’ve been together for over a year now. How the fuck.

Ryoma sighs. “No.”

“Long distance for someone you don’t give a fuck about?”

“What makes you think —” He apparently can’t believe his ears. You wave a hand in between the two of you. “We’re as dysfunctional as it can get,” you say, matter-of-fact. Your love story, supposedly a movie love story, is in all sincerity only an empty apology and a dispassionate kiss.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Is he expecting to wake up from some dream or nightmare? You can’t figure him out. There was a time when you knew him like the back of your hand. Then there was a year where you resolutely forgot every damn thing you knew about him. And in this one year you’ve been dating him, you haven’t been able to regain an iota of that knowledge. Is this called being mature? You hope not. You’re a fucking child.

He releases a restless sigh again. You take the plunge.

“You know, it’s okay if you don’t love me. You don’t have to be sorry for rejecting me two years ago. The unbelievably underage drinking and everything. It was what it was. You don’t need to be sorry for making me do that. This relationship has felt like it’s only been you saying sorry for a year. It’s fine. Really. Don’t make yourself do this. You aren’t a bad person if you want out of this.”

“You think you fucking know me!” 

The irony. You know you don’t. And you’re supposed to because he’s been your boyfriend for a year and more and you’ve seen him naked and you’ve seen him gorging himself on burgers and being cool and delivering stupid one-liners every time he wins a match.

Ryoma’s eyes now convey some wild emotion (desperation?) that you can’t recognise because you didn’t expect it.

“I love you. I love you. I love you and I was a terrible fucking person and really fucked things up and I didn’t see what was right in front of me and I made you go through hell but I asked you out because I wanted to be with you and I’ve been hoping things would heal between us for so long and I just really want to be with you and I’m so sorry that she came to Japan believing something so very false, but I have no idea how to properly fix us —”

You have never seen tears flow this thick, fast, and freely from someone’s eyes before. What do you do now? You guess you know how he feels about you, _and_ her, now. How do you feel?

* * *

 

XVII.

That girl sometimes uploads photos of her and Ryoma to Facebook in which she tags Ryoma, which is why you can see those photos. He looks happy, and a little bit guilty for looking happy. You no longer give a fuck about those photos.

Is this what security feels like? Is this really what trust and faith feel like?

Wow.

Ryoma thinks he’s going to surprise you with this, but when you look up the participant list for the year’s tennis tournaments in Germany, he’s on every single one of them.

You smile. It feels lovely to smile.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this! Thank you for reading!  
> This is my first fanfic in over a year, I believe.  
> It was more or less cathartic, based on something that has happened to me, except my Ryoma and I don't talk anymore and probably never will for the rest of our lives lol. This fanfic was just me contemplating one of the possible outcomes of my situation. What could have been. Whatever. It/ my Ryoma doesn't matter anymore.
> 
> Thank you again for reading. I'm sorry for any mistakes in spelling, grammar, or formatting.


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